


Evil Never Sleeps (It's Just Resting Its Eyes)

by The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Banter, Because that's what the world needs right now, Bickering, But a very soft pest, Classical Music, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Discussion of Composers, Dorks in Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, He's more of a pest than anything else, Humor, Look I just really needed some fluff, M/M, Napping, No Angst, No Plot, Only Softness, Post-Apocalypse, Rainy Days, Sleepy Cuddles, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), They're both so soft it's disgusting, Wings, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:37:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe/pseuds/The_Apostrophe_of_Catastrophe
Summary: Of all the seven sins, Sloth had always been Crowley’s favorite.It's a rainy day in London, and laziness reigns supreme. Crowley's just doing his job.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 105





	Evil Never Sleeps (It's Just Resting Its Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> I...have nothing to say for myself. I've been lurking in the GO fandom since before the show came out, but it's been over a year and I haven't escaped. Luckily, I have no plans to.  
> This is probably the most pointless thing I've ever written; it's 2k words of pure fluff, with no destination and no purpose, and I loved writing every word. I had a vision of a rainy day at the bookshop and thought, "Huh, that would make a cute 200 word ficlet," then my love of music history and banter took hold, and it grew a little more than I thought it would. But the world's a little crazy and I needed a serotonin boost. Hopefully, you'll find some peace while reading it yourself. Enjoy!

Of all the seven sins, Sloth had always been Crowley’s favorite. Gluttony looked good on Aziraphale, sure, but Crowley wore Sloth like Naomi Campbell wore Versace. It was just so easy to _not_ do things, wasn’t it? And of all the ways to do nothing, sleeping was by far the most efficient. Evil never sleeps, as the saying goes, but Crowley rather enjoyed it.

That’s a lie. (Another sin, so sue him.) Crowley didn’t enjoy sleep; Crowley _loved_ sleep. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it. And what was better, he didn’t _need_ it, which doubled his Sloth Points when he indulged his hobby. Humans at least had a medical reason to sleep; Crowley just liked how it felt. Sleeping was a process, and done right, there were few things more pleasant.

But sometimes, Crowley didn’t want to sleep, not when there were better things to do.

(Sometimes better _people_ to do; or, well, a better _person—_ well, not quite a _person,_ but a person-shaped being—in particular, but that was beside the point.) Sloth didn’t just have to happen through sleep.

Rainy days, Crowley had found over the centuries, lent themselves well to Sloth. There was a recipe, of sorts, if one really wanted to get it right. If Crowley were writing it down, it might look something like this:

_Recipe for Sloth_

_1 rainy day, preferably just wet enough that going out would be Truly Unpleasant_

_1 warm fire or cozy blanket (for an undertone of Overindulgence, use both)_

_2 or more excuses not to do anything (rain will always be one of them; leave it to victim to find the rest)_

_1 mug of something warm (the disappointment everyone feels at realizing they will have to wash the mug later is an excellent bonus, in Crowley’s book)_

_Optional: 1 decent conversationalist_

_Blend well with a dash of thunder, add a couch, and enjoy._

The excuses were really the key, Crowley found. _“It’s wet out and I lost my umbrella last week,” “I just cleaned the dishes, surely I deserve a moment of peace,”_ and _“My doctor is always telling me to take the time to de-stress more often”_ were all viable reasons not to do something. It just so happened that, for Crowley, his current excuse came in the form of an angel.

Today was very much a high productivity day for Sloth. The rain pattered at the windows with a solid determination, and the light that managed to stream indoors was pale and grey, marred by the rain drops upon the glass that cast slithery shadows over the wooden floor of the bookshop. Most of the light was swallowed entirely by the thick Persian rug; all the colors of the bookshop seemed a little softer, a little muted. Not dull, or any less rich. Just softer. Soft like the couch Crowley had draped himself over, soft like the carpet his feet would occasionally brush against, soft like the sound of the rain outside where other people were probably getting splashed and feeling miserable—but none of that mattered here, in the bookshop’s sheltering warmth.

Soft like the dawn of a new spring morning. Soft like Aziraphale. (Aziraphale, who had taken one look at the rain outside and declared that they would not, in fact, be going to the park that day, and that he had a bit of light reading he had been looking forward to, and oh, no, my dear, that’s not a dig for you to leave, I was rather hoping to hear your opinions on Goethe versus Marlowe, preferably over a glass of red wine, I have just the thing.)

The angel in question was reclining in his faded blue armchair, humming softly to himself. The record player had spun out of music ages ago, but Aziraphale hadn’t seemed to mind, instead taking on the responsibility (unconsciously, most likely) of carrying on the music himself. He had gone from Tchaikovsky’s _Barcarol_ to Bach’s _Siciliana,_ both probably a key lower than they were written, but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to care. Right now, Aziraphale had moved on to _Nessun Dorma._

“Puccini did some decent stuff,” Crowley commented as Aziraphale turned another page.

“Yes, he did, didn’t he?” Aziraphale mused distractedly.

“Shame he never ventured outside of opera, really, if you ask me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. He glanced up at Crowley. _Gotcha,_ Crowley thought; when one has known someone for six thousand years, one stops feeling the need to maintain a constant stream of conversation when in that person’s company _._ Still, that doesn’t mean Crowley wanted to sit in silence the entire afternoon; Aziraphale had been peaceful for too long, and Crowley wasn’t one to ignore the opportunity to cause a bit of trouble, even if that trouble came in the form of playing devil’s advocate. (He had done just that, on one memorable occasion, and decided promptly that the lawyer’s life was not for him.) “If one has mastered something, shouldn’t one employ those God-given talents to one’s craft of choice?” Aziraphale continued.

“Then how, pray tell, does one explain Mozart? Or da Vinci?”

“My dear,” scoffed Aziraphale, “there _is_ no explaining Mozart or da Vinci. Some things are—”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

 _“Inexplicable,”_ Aziraphale said triumphantly, with the kind of smugness that only someone who once had a hand in developing the modern-day thesaurus could achieve.

“Not quite the same connotation, angel.”

“It’s close enough, isn’t it? And anyway, we need the exceptions in order to prove the rule.”

“Mozart was exceptional, but I wouldn’t call him an exception. His sister wasn’t that far behind the boy; it’s just his name on all the music whatsits.”

“Musical scores?”

“Those,” Crowley agreed, yawning. Aziraphale hummed.

“I thought you didn’t much care for Mozart,” he said curiously, laying a finger on the page so he wouldn’t lose his place. Crowley made a noncommittal noise.

“I don’t think I ever said that.” He probably had; it took so very little to rile Aziraphale up, and the rewards were immensely satisfying. “It was really Bach I didn’t much care for, ‘f I’m honest.”

“Senior?”

“Yeah, his kids were alright. Maybe better.”

“You’re only saying that because Bach wrote for the Church.”

“Nah, if that were the case, I’d never be caught dead humming Handel now, would I? Bach was just…” He waved a hand in the air. “Boring.”

“Boring? My dear boy, how can you say such a thing?”

“Easy enough, I just did it, didn’t I?” Crowley asked, grinning. Aziraphale scowled.

They had had this conversation before, sometime in the last eleven years. They had met up at the Royal Albert to discuss young Warlock’s education and development. Granted, they didn’t discuss much of anything during the concert; Aziraphale wouldn’t have allowed such rudeness. Crowley had complained the whole way regardless, and even clapped gleefully in between every movement, much to Aziraphale’s dismay, which he expressed with a disapproving, “I can’t take you anywhere, honestly my dear.” The affectionate irritation in his voice had made Crowley’s night.

“His stuff is predictable,” Crowley complained now, as he had then—possibly verbatim. “Doesn’t matter what key it’s in, major or minor, you just know where it’s going.”

“It is about the _journey_ , Crowley, not the destination, as they say.” Aziraphale had used that particular phrase on Crowley in several situations, and he rarely appreciated it in the moment. (Hindsight, maybe, but that was quite another matter.) “And besides, he wrote his music as a reflection of God’s symmetry—the perfection of Creation’s design.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Crowley scoffed. “Him and every architect, gardener, and painter of the Renaissance. That was quite the popular motive, I recall.”

“The days when art, science, and religion were interconnected,” Aziraphale said dreamily. “Humanity had started to develop such _fascinating_ ideas at that time.”

“Yeah, sure—didn’t make them less boring.”

“You always did seem to like Emmanuel and Carl better than Johann.” Aziraphale looked thoughtful, blue eyes a little distant. “But I know you liked Beethoven; you were practically broken up over his death.”

Crowley shrugged. It was an awkward movement in this position, lying down on the couch, but he made it work. “He broke a lot of rules, didn’t he? I mean, not too many at that time would just say ‘to hell with the masses and the standards’ and create a new orchestra rather than march to the beat of someone else’s drum.” Crowley had liked Ludwig; the man was irreverent—borderline rude if it suited him— and knew how to get under people’s skin. He was delightful. “Almost as much fun as Paganini.” Now _there_ was a man who didn’t merely break rules; he crushed them up and blew the dust in people’s faces.

“Paganini!” exclaimed Aziraphale. “I remember when he was touring. Did you really make a deal with him so that he could play those cadenzas?”

“Nah,” Crowley said. “Some medical whatsit with his hands, wasn’t it? Anyhow, some humans are talented enough; I couldn’t even think of anything to offer him.” Truth be told, Niccolo had always seemed to enjoy the notoriety; it certainly kept the musicians in orchestras too afraid to be angry when the violinist would refuse to show them the sheet music they were supposed to play until practically the last second.  
“I think I have a record of his works somewhere,” Aziraphale mused. Crowley made to stand up. “Oh, no need, dear, you look far too comfortable. I’ll get it. Besides, I could do with some cocoa, and it only tastes right when it’s made from scratch.” The angel rose, setting his book on the chair he had just vacated. “Can I tempt you to some cocoa as well, by any chance?”

“Temptation accomplished,” Crowley said, the response now a cross between instinct and an inside joke. Aziraphale smiled at him, gently touching the demon’s knee where his leg hung over the arm of the couch as he moved toward the gramophone. The soulful wail of a violin kicked up a moment later, and Crowley yawned, stretched, and closed his eyes, settling a little further into the couch.

He opened his eyes a moment later to find that the sky had darkened to a nearly indigo-grey and that his pillow had been traded for Aziraphale’s lap. Something warm and soft was covering him, like a blanket only lighter; a sleepy glance showed him that the angel’s wings were the culprit, feathers splayed white and pristine as fresh snow—mostly thanks to Crowley’s constant grooming. They seemed to radiate Love, but not just the general Love Aziraphale felt for all creatures great and small. Crowley knew it was directed at him; it made his skin prickle. He’d never get used to that, the easy affection, the casual touches. They didn’t make him jump out of his skin, anymore, but that didn’t lessen the novelty of such open adoration on Aziraphale’s part. (The adoration, he found out early on, wasn’t new, only Aziraphale’s fearlessness.) A now-empty mug (the gag gift he had bought Aziraphale ages ago) was sitting upon the coffee table, and its still-full matching black counterpart (another reminder of how thoroughly they had invaded each other’s spaces) sat beside it.

“The fiend awakens,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley heard him put something down (a book, obviously, what else would it be?) on the arm of the couch, felt soothing fingers slide into his hair.

“Foul,” Crowley corrected, syllables muffled against Aziraphale’s leg as he burrowed deeper into his warmth. “A _foul_ fiend, don’t forget.”

“Indeed.” He could hear the smile, a little smug, a little warm. Entirely for him. “My foul fiend. Whatever shall I do with you, now that I have you in hand?”

“Or maybe you’re the one trapped,” Crowley argued. It wasn’t true, never would be, for he was Aziraphale’s as much as the angel was his. “Possesssssssed by a demon.”

“As though you’ve never made that joke before.”  
“It doesn’t get any less funny, Angel, admit it.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale sniffed, and his hand moved down to flick Crowley’s shoulder. At Crowley’s startled, “Hey!” he rubbed the space between Crowley’s shoulder blades with a chuckle. “Sorry, love.”

Love.

Demons were supposed to indulge in the Seven Deadly Sins; it was practically part and parcel of the job description. Love was something else entirely. Love was Good, and Nice, and definitely not within the rules.

Fuck the rules, Crowley thought, eyes drifting back shut as the warmth of a fireplace glowed behind his eyelids.

“You can’t go back to sleep on me, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded half-heartedly. “It’s well past dinner time, and I don’t know about you but I’m starting to grow a bit peckish, myself.”

“Nope,” Crowley said, tightening his grip on the angel’s knee and nuzzling the fabric. “The rain hasn’t let up, angel, you can’t seriously tell me you want to go out in this weather. Think of your coat.”

“Crowley, if my coat couldn’t take a little rain, it wouldn’t be much of a coat now, would it? Things were better made in the 1880’s,” said Aziraphale, but he ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair anyway. It was getting long again. 

“I’d sooner make crepes than go out,” Crowley grumbled. “You have enough books in here, one of them must have a recipe.” Aziraphale hummed.

“But we’ve barely moved all day,” he said, like it had ever mattered before to him, the absolute bastard.

“Oh, come on, angel,” Crowley said. “Let me tempt you.” He glanced over his shoulder to see Aziraphale smiling at him, warmer than a hearth fire, sweeter than caramel.

“My dear,” he said, “you always do.”

Crowley smirked and settled back down. Hell could keep their seven sins; Crowley had something better.

The rain pattered on, washing over Soho, leaving puddles in the pavement, but oddly enough, not one single resident could bring themselves to mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are like whipped cream and comments are like chocolate; delightful on their own, but a masterpiece together!


End file.
